


Sleep, My Mortal

by tyelkormofuckyou



Series: Fae Silmarillion AU [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Dubious Consent, Eldritch Elves, Evil Finrod, Fae & Fairies, M/M, PWP, Twisted Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyelkormofuckyou/pseuds/tyelkormofuckyou
Summary: Finrod really likes playing with humans, collecting their names and not telling them the whole truth.I wanted a fairytale, I got 4k of pure porn instead. But at least I made it quite pretty:,)
Relationships: Barahir (First Age)/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Edain
Series: Fae Silmarillion AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138517
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Sleep, My Mortal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hungry Eye, Ancient Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25354426) by [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard), [SecretlyThranduil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretlyThranduil/pseuds/SecretlyThranduil). 



> I’m sorry SecretlyThranduil to doing this to your AU... I probably shouldn’t have but Fifi has me in his magical grasp. Sorry not sorry

Barahir was feeling anxious. It was supposed to be his first day of service, and he didn’t know what to expect. His family’s views on the matter were rather diverse; his father and most of his friends fully supported his dream of serving the Faery Lords, but his mother was frightened (even paranoid, it seemed).

“Don’t go,” she begged, “they already took your brother, these thrice-cursed warrior brothers! Don’t you know what they say about the Ruin of Men?”

_He breaks hearts. He enchants and holds his prizes as thralls. He effeminates men and masculinizes women. He tortures those who stay true to tradition and normality, he bathes in the blood of human children to keep his skin of a thousand years smooth like a baby’s._

He wanted to slap her for the last three words: _Ruin of Men_. He’d seen Angrod and Aegnor, his older brother Bregolas’ commanders, and they were so brave and enchanting and beautiful in their splendor! From what he’d heard about King Finrod, he was fair as the break of day, fairer than any Fae he’d seen (he seriously doubted this part, for Angrod and Aegnor were unmatched in their glory), wise, and sweet. There was no way the King of the Fae was a Ruin, he was rather a Blessing, teaching humans the Faery ways.

But here he was, eventually. He’d left his family home and he was here now, on the great courtyard, with other brave young Edain, chosen and honored with the task of serving the King.

But where was the King?

Barahir really wanted to ask this question to the Fae who brought them here, a tall dark-haired warrior (beautiful despite the scar on his left cheek), but even more he desired to appear serious and dedicated, and asking questions like a small child wouldn’t help in that.

Finally, he heard voices and hands clapping, and eventually trumpet flourishes – and saw the court entering the wooden platform with banners. There were lords with long capes and ladies in fancy dresses (especially one of them was dressed in an enormous white gown glittering with golden flowers – for a moment Barahir wondered how she’s able to breathe with such a small waist). However he did notice one of the ladies wearing a dress of a different kind – a long white skirt, with no patterns other than a heavy golden belt (hanging outrageously low in a way that’d appall his mother for sure), and a long white cloak. Barahir appreciated the sophisticated hairstyles as well, full of braids and jewels and chains.

To his bewilderment, the golden-haired lady in the skirt without a crinoline took the place in the middle and whispered something in one Lord’s ear.

“When will the King arrive?” Barahir asked the boy who stood next to him, hoping he’s quiet enough. The Fae captain’s hearing was sharp, though.

“How dare you-“ he hissed, and Barahir looked at him with confusion, but his words were cut off as one of the Lords took off the lady’s cloak, revealing a suspiciously flat chest covered only by two straps of fabric crossing over it, covering the breasts but revealing the belly – and the ‘lady’ turned out to have a melodic, but obviously male voice.

“Welcome, dearest friends!”

The whole guard and folk on the yard fell to their knees, and the Edain followed. The King laughed.

“Get up, please. I’d like to welcome our new companions, some young Edain who chose to follow our command,” he smiled – and the sun came out from behind the clouds, and Barahir understood all the tales about the King’s pulchritude. It was the most beautiful sight Barahir has ever seen.

“My heart feels warm when I see all those young, eager faces,” Finrod continued, as he walked to the stairs leading off the platform to the ground. He delicately raised his skirt, revealing delicate golden shoes with _high heels_ and graciously walked down the stairs. If Barahir’s head had been able to produce anything more than _FAIR FAIR FAIR_ _FAIR!_ , he’d for sure think that it’s impossible to walk in such footwear. The King however proved him false, as he approached the group – and when he came closer, Barahir thought he’s going to faint if his eyes stay on Finrod’s face for just one more second.

Finrod smiled again, and Barahir surprisingly found himself not fainting.

“Hello, young lady,” he greeted one of the few girls.

“Your Majesty,” she bowed.

“You seem strong,” Finrod complimented, his eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t you give me your name so I can address you properly, sweet thing?”

“Emeldir, Your Majesty,” she replied. Finrod smiled oh-so-sweetly.

“Thank you.”

The captain whispered something in Finrod’s ear, and Finrod smiled. “Thank you!”

His eyes searched for Barahir, and then, as he approached the boy, Barahir felt like he’s really going to pass out.

“Oh, I think I know you!” Finrod’s eyes twinkled in interest. “Aren’t you Bregolas’ little brother?”

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“But what was your name… I think you were still an infant when I saw your brother,” Finrod wondered. “Can I get your name, sweet lad? Give it to me and I won’t forget again, I promise.”

“Barahir, Your Majesty!”

Finrod grinned, and his white teeth flashed in the sun, just like his hair, braided into complicated patterns around his head.

_____

“His Majesty demands your presence in his chambers.”

“Why?”

“The King likes young Edain boys,” a lady in a pink dress passing by giggles.

“Especially when they’re as pretty as you,” her friend of blue snickers.

“Silence!” Lord Edrahil snarls. “Don’t ask questions, you’re in his service, you do what you’re ordered to do. The King demands you to come.”

“Sure,” Barahir shrugs. Why would His Majesty ask him to go to his chamber? He seemed to feel tired that day on the feast, and he did excuse himself early. Maybe he wants to talk and know him better? But why at this hour?

Lord Edrahil walks quick and sure, and soon Barahir finds himself at the big golden door.

“Here,” Edrahil says, nods and walks away.

Barahir looks at the little golden leaves and hesitates. He knows there’s unspeakable beauty on the other side, and is suddenly unsure of his own body – ragged and rough after mere twenty years.

Finally he knocks.

“Come in,” he hears from the other side.

Most of Finrod’s intricate hairstyle is undone, and now has only a braid long enough to reach his loins, adorned by jewels here and there. The makeup is already off, and so is the Nauglamír.

“Hello, little one,” he smiles gently, “forgive my appearance, it takes some time to change.”

“Forgive your appearance, Your Majesty? Aye, I do forgive you for taking my breath away,” Barahir chuckles nervously, hoping his compliment isn’t as cheap as it sounds. Finrod laughs.

“Thank you, my dear. Let me get those off,” he gestures to his sandals, “they’re okay at first but you have no idea how my feet feel after a whole day on those heels.”

He chuckles and _bends in half_ to undo the golden straps. _His legs stay straight_ and Barahir contemplates the King’s flexibility, and…

 _Damn,_ he thinks, and blushes, catching himself unconsciously staring at… well, a certain part of His Majesty that rather sticks out at the moment. (But all would have to admit, to Barahir’s defense, that the part is outrageously comely).

Finrod takes off his shoes and straightens, the skirt gathering around his feet.

“What a relief.” He turns to the vanity and takes a diamond pin and some pearls out of his hair, leaving it in a simple, thick, unadorned braid.

And then he _takes off_ the two straps of fabric from his chest.

Barahir furiously blushes, not knowing why. Finrod doesn’t seem to notice, laying them on the stool in front of the vanity.

Barahir almost _screams_ when he sees Finrod’s hands reaching towards the golden belt.

_The skirt falls._

“I hope you don’t mind,” Finrod chuckles, “I bet you’ve seen an undressed man before.” He reaches for a thin dressing gown on the chair nearby.

“Not an Elf, Your Majesty,” Barahir manages to mumble, embarrassed but unable to tear his eyes off Finrod’s long back, disappearing in the white underwear.

“It can’t be that different,” Finrod puts the robe on and turns towards Barahir.

It’s unbelievably thin and Barahir sees most of Finrod anyway, even in the dim chamber, and it makes his face _red._

“How do you like it in Nargothrond?”

“I- I, uhm-,” he struggles to manage a word, “it’s… beautiful, Your- Your Majesty.”

Finrod laughs.

“Oh, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I thought all of your folk are… open about certain matters.”

“I am, Your Majesty,” Barahir assures quickly, not wanting to seem prude.

“I knew a certain ancestor of yours and it seems like I projected his views on you, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“You mean Bëor?”

“Aye,” Finrod smiles dreamily. “You share some similarities with him in looks, but he was shorter, and much older than you when I first met him. But tonight I want to talk to you, not to my memory of Bëor. Sit with me.”

He falls onto the bed and laughs cheerfully. Barahir loves the sound.

“Your- Your Majesty, I’m not sure if I should-“

Finrod silences him, putting a finger over his own mouth. “Come on,” he coaxes, “don’t worry, I’m asking you.”

Barahir sits on the edge of the bed.

“I want to see my new soldier,” Finrod purrs. “Are you as strong as my Captain claimed? Take off your shirt.”

Barahir feels rather shy, but does as the King asks, folding it neatly on the nearest chair and returning to the bed. Finrod lays propped on his elbow, and the silver-white robe slips prettily from his slender shoulder.

“You do seem agile,” he comments, eyes wandering over Barahir’s chest. “How old are you?”

“About twenty, Your Majesty.”

“Do all boys your age already have the dust on their chests?”

“Some do, Your Majesty.”

Finrod plays with his braid. “Very well.” He gets up, fixes the robe and reaches for something on his nightstand. Then he starts lighting more candles. “Can I see your legs as well, or is it too much to ask?”

“Your-, Your Majesty-,” Barahir turns even _redder_ , “I- we, umm, the Edain don’t wear-“

“I don’t mind,” Finrod smiles amusedly. “You won’t be the first man I’ve seen naked, my boy, I see one every day in the mirror.”

Barahir desperately tries to hide his face as he takes off his boots and breeches. Finrod lights another candle.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the room is brighter now. His eyes wander over Barahir’s frame, his thighs, loins, arms and face, and there’s a glint in his eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Barahir swallows, “I know you say it out of kindness. Every single Elf of your Kingdom is fairer than me, and you’re used to see the fairest sight every day in your mirror.”

“Surely you can’t mean to say you’re not fair,” Finrod shakes his golden head. “Your body is wonderful, so vibrant and full of life. I must confess I rarely see such briskness, living amongst immortals and jewels. I enjoy it very much about the human race,” he smiles whimsically, “the strength and vigor.”

He lights the last candle.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Barahir feels and sounds small.

“Awww, don’t be so modest, you have to get used to people complimenting you if you keep these muscles,” Finrod chuckles. “And… other things.”

He cheerfully throws himself onto the bed again.

“Come here, lie down by my side. Try this wine my cousin Morifinwë sends from his lands.”

“The son of the Great Demon Smith?”

Finrod almost spills the wine, bursting with laughter. “That’s what you call Uncle Fëanáro? Can’t say it’s not accurate,” he cackles. “Yes, he is Fëanáro’s son, but I can assure you he is no demon. Well, he can turn into one sometimes but it brings only pleasure.”

Barahir looks at Finrod with confusion.

“Nevermind,” Finrod giggles and passes him a goblet. “Try it.”

Barahir takes a sip.

“It’s delicious!”

“Isn’t it?” Finrod smirks and pours some more. Barahir looks at his thin wrist, his slender body under the delicate robe, the golden braid… he’s even less ashamed of his own crude, hairy nudity, focused on Finrod’s charming beauty.

“Can I have some more, Your Majesty? It’s the best drink I’ve had in my life.”

Finrod chuckles.

“No, my boy, we don’t want you drunk. You’ve had enough, I just wanted you to try it because it is super tasty.” He takes Barahir’s goblet out of his hand and lays it on his nightstand.

“Now, now, my little one,” he purrs, laying a long-fingered hand on Barahir’s broad chest, “tell me, have you had any girls? I’m curious about how’s your life going. Did you have to leave a maiden behind to get to my service?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Barahir chuckles nervously, suddenly feeling shy again. “I’ve never had a girl… I’ve seen some and even kissed two, but nothing more.”

“Has some maiden caught your eye?” Finrod’s hand caresses him gently.

“Emeldir is beautiful, I’ve seen her naked, bathing in a stream,” he whispers, blushing. “She’s strong and fierce.”

“You’d make a fine couple then,” Finrod says, “since you are strong and fierce as well.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty- oh Gods, I’m so sorry!” He desperately reaches for the nearest piece of fabric to cover himself.

Finrod giggles. “It’s normal for Men, when thinking of a beautiful woman.”

Barahir is puzzled. “Don’t you Elves have it the same?”

“No, not really,” Finrod smiles. “We have more control over it. But as our lives are long, one grows weary of simple bodily pleasures, and must seek more and more to be fulfilled.”

“It must be harsh…”

“It isn’t, actually. Our customs take that into consideration.” Suddenly, Barahir loses his breath as Finrod throws one leg over his hips and straddles him, a golden braid falling over his right shoulder onto Barahir’s chest. “We care for our friends deeply too, not only our lovers, as some humans might say,” he smiles sweetly and brushes a dark curl out of Barahir’s face.

“Do you greet all your friends and vassals in such a manner?” Barahir asks curiously. “In your chambers? We humans don’t do it.”

“The dear ones, yes,’ Finrod smiles charmingly and quickly _kisses him._

Barahir thinks he’s going to faint.

“Your Majesty, I-“

“Shush,” Finrod lays a finger on his lips, and then leans down to do it again, deep and long. His wiggly tongue tastes of honey and wine, and Barahir is surprised how wonderful his lips are – but, then again, he should’ve expected that. Everything about Finrod is perfect and sweet and beautiful, and his _smell_ , and his hair, and his skin, …

“Your Majesty,” Barahir rasps, “this is too improper.”

“Only to your folk,” Finrod shots a secret smile. “And you’re in Nargothrond now.”

“Don’t the Noldor marry before they do such things? Kiss in that manner? We Edain don’t kiss our friends like that.”

“We do marry, but like I told you, we’d be bored to death without a bit of fun. I do have a woman who’s dear to me like no other, but she’s on the other side of the sea, and I’ve touched no other woman since our ways parted. But she understands it well that neither of us can live in celibacy for centuries. She doesn’t wait for me untouched either.”

“You surely don’t mean you- you touch other men like that, Your Majesty?! That’s too improper, it’s sinful, one can’t do that, it’s-“ Barahir swallows hard and looks away.

“What am I doing right now, then?” Finrod sounds half amused and half irritated, and he shoots Barahir a mean smile as his hand closes around Barahir’s cock.

Barahir gasps. “A man- with another? Your Majesty, that’s just-, I thought you meant this as brotherly caresses of friends, that kiss-“

“Are you Edain really that stupid?” Finrod hisses. “You’re naked in my bed with me straddling your hips, and you think it’s brotherly love? Maybe your human kinsmen will call us _friends_ after I suck your cock and _roommates_ after you spend the night in my chambers and I ride you so hard that you’ll forget your own name?”

Barahir blushes furiously and tries to get up. Finrod’s hand doesn’t retreat.

“Your Majesty, I think we-“

“You’re still hard,” Finrod smirks. “If you liked women only, you wouldn’t be.”

Barahir is red. “That’s because you- Your Majesty- you do look like a woman, a bit, …”

Finrod throws his head back in laughter. His slender shoulders shake and his belly flexes. Barahir stares at the long alabaster neck that is now exposed.

“A woman, you say?” The golden king pushes Barahir down onto the mattress. “I can make it work.”

Barahir watches, puzzled.

Finrod gets off him and unties his silvery robe. Barahir has noticed the delicate white underwear before, but now he sees it well – a soft pair of short bloomers that seem more expensive than his family’s whole household. It must’ve been a wonderful artist who crocheted the laces on the edges.

Finrod slowly pushes them down. The thin veil of his robe doesn’t cover his body at all, and now even less, when the underwear disappears.

Barahir looks at the hipbones, the smooth skin, the flat white belly, the small cock that’s now hardened and a bit flushed, the golden braid falling over a slender shoulder and all the way down to the loins – and forgets about not wanting to touch a man.

“Your Majesty, you’re beautiful, I-“

“Shush.” Finrod climbs back on top of him, kneeling over his hips, and reaches behind his own back to take hold of Barahir’s cock and line it up with his ass. Before Barahir even notices what’s going on, he sinks down, taking it all in.

“Ohh, yes!” He throws his head back.

“Gods above!” Barahir nearly shouts. “What did you just- you couldn’t have, Your Majesty-“

“Yes!” There is a wild glint in Finrod’s eyes, and he grins. “I did! Elbereth, you’re so big!”

“Am I?” Barahir feels helpless in the face of Finrod’s magnificent body impaled on him, he doesn’t know where to look and what to do with his hands. Finrod is so slender and taut, and his back arches as he rolls his hips.

“Eru Allmighty!” Finrod’s feral grin widens and Barahir notices the _long_ _fangs_ now, and the sharpness of all his teeth. “You’re so good!”

“Your Majesty, how are you so wet?” Barahir closes his eyes, but instantly regrets it and opens them again to look at the beautiful Elf. “I thought only women can-… oh fuck!”

“I did it before you came here,” Finrod hisses, smiling, “I prepared myself because I knew you’d be good, and when I saw your cock I had to pretend it’s not one of the best I’ve seen,” he rolls his hips again. “Damn you, boy!”

“Your Majesty!” Barahir rasps. “You’re so- ah!”

Finrod tightens his muscles with a malicious smile. “Take this, little human… oh yes!” Short strands of hair escape his braid and there’s a messy golden halo around his face, cheeks a bit flushed. He starts moving faster, and the thin robe slips from his shoulders.

“Your Majesty!” Barahir mewls. “Please please please! Can I- oh please faster!”

“Oh my little boy,” Finrod smiles sweetly and slows down, flexing his insides with every deliberate move, “you’re doing so good.”

“Your Majesty! I’m begging you, I need to- I’ll give you anything!”

“Promise?” Finrod cocks his head and rolls his hips ostentatiously, like a dancer.

“Yes!”

“Good.” And he does move faster, so fast his braid is swaying and Barahir thrashes helplessly, nearly in tears, and then-

“Oh yes!” Barahir yells and his body tenses, as he floods Finrod with an embarrassingly huge load.

Finrod hisses, feeling it in his passage, and looks at Barahir with a fey smile.

“Just like that, stupid mortal. Come on!”

Barahir lets out his last shot and feels boneless, staring at Finrod’s wild, messy beauty with huge eyes.

“Your Majesty…”

Finrod takes in an angry breath. “You were supposed to be strong! Come on!”

He gets off Barahir, and when a drop of come escapes his hole, he pushes it right back in. He takes off his robe.

Barahir finally gets his senses back and realizes that the king didn’t find his release, and he reaches to his pink cock. Finrod doesn’t let him take it in hand.

“For Manwë’s sake.” He lies on his back and raises his legs so high that he’s bent in half, and his hole opens and closes, as if winking to Barahir, and the Man notices a little pearly droplet-

“Oh Gods.” His cock momentally hardens, and he gives it a few pumps, staring at Finrod’s pulsing, small opening. He takes a moment to compare their bodies – they’re of similar height since Barahir is one of the tallest of his people, but he’s much broader and more muscular, with a warm tan and dark curly hair here and there; while Finrod’s milky white body is slender, willowy and sleek, without a single golden hair on his unnaturally smooth skin. Where Barahir is strong, Finrod is flexible, where Barahir is steel and iron, Finrod is elastic. It’s ironic how their races’ nature is the exact opposite of their physical features.

Barahir kneels close to Finrod’s exposed rear and lines up his thick red head with the Elf’s hole. Now he sees the difference – his own cock is dark and long and thick and veiny, the base disappearing in a bush of dark curls, and Finrod’s own is almost petite and dainty, and yet so beautiful. He’d never believe that an owner of such a manhood, and a king no less, would turn out to be such a debauched creature – but he’s grateful for it, Gods damn him!

He pushes in, and reaches for Finrod’s member to stroke it as he rolls his hips. Finrod’s tip is pink and pretty, and a droplet escapes the tiny hole.

“Faster, boy,” the King commands and a thought of disobeying doesn’t even cross Barahir’s mind. He plunges in deep, quickly finding an angle that makes the King moan and whimper in a high voice, like a woman, and he leaves Finrod’s cock to prop himself on his elbows as he goes hard and deep.

“Yes, just like that,” Finrod rasps. Barahir grabs his legs and doesn’t hold himself back anymore, and Finrod’s eyes tear up.

“Yes! Fuck me harder! Deeper!” Finrod babbles nonsense and only half of his talk reaches Barahir’s ears, but what does is enough to push him over the edge.

“Fuck!”

Another flood fills Finrod and as the Elf feels it, he finds his own release. Barahir leans in a haze and licks Finrod’s come off the soft skin of his slim torso, and pulls out. Finrod is gaping and open, and Barahir’s essence dribbles out of him.

“Your Majesty, that was the best thing I’ve ever felt,” Barahir says honestly, looking dreamily into Finrod’s big blue eyes.

“I’m glad you liked it. Are you weary yet?”

“Well, I am kind of sleepy,” Barahir admits. “I’ve never done this before and I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

Finrod wipes his messy cleft with some piece of fabric from the nightstand.

“You sure you won’t manage?”

“Your Majesty, are you truly that insatiable? How will I ever fulfill your great needs?" Barahir is amused, but his smile drops when Finrod turns his head towards him – and for a second the light of the Fëanorian lamp nearby hits his eyes that suddenly reflect it in an eldritch way, like a cat’s. Finrod smiles and cocks his head; the effect disappears.

“What can I say, you are appealing.” He shrugs and turns to the nightstand. Barahir hears wine being poured, but can’t see, admiring Finrod’s back instead.

The King turns to him and passes him the goblet with a smile.

“Want some?”

Barahir accepts it and takes a sip, then another. “Oh, Your Majesty, I’m very sleepy… would some guard of yours escort me to my chamber?”

“You can stay here,” Finrod smiles sweetly and takes the goblet, laying it back on the nightstand. “Sleep, my mortal, my little Barahir.”

Barahir slips under the blankets. ‘”Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

“Goodnight.”

As soon as he closes his eyes, he drifts off to a dreamless sleep.

Finrod stares at him for a moment with a warm smile, and caresses the muscular arm with his fingertips, then plays with the dark curls. Finally he plants a kiss on the Man’s nape.

He chuckles and sits up.

“I know you’ve been standing there, boys! Guards!”

Feet hit the floor on the other side of the door, and he hears the guards’ voices. “Filthy mortals, eavesdropping on their King? How dare you-“

“Come here,” Finrod cuts.

The door opens and two concerned guards stick their heads to the chamber, staring wide-eyed at Finrod sitting wantonly among the sheets. In the background he sees the frightened young Edain, at least five or six of them. “Your Majesty?”

“Take him to his chamber,” Finrod gestures to the sleeping Barahir, “and all his stuff.”

The guards hurry to raise Barahir’s unconscious body and collect his garments, trying to leave the chamber as fast as they can.

Finrod smiles sweetly, playing with his braid. “And boys?”

There’s silence for a moment, and then a small, scared voice whispers: “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Come in.” There’s a scurry of feet, and he grins licentiously as his young, eager mortals take their clothes off. “Come on, boys. Don’t be shy.”


End file.
